


Episode 909: Dirty Water Dying

by agelade



Series: Lustra: A Supernatural Season 9 AU [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Demon Blood, Gen, Mental Illness, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/pseuds/agelade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's back, Dean's mostly okay, and they have to deal with what has happened. Unfortunately, they disagree on pretty much every aspect of "dealing," and Dean HAS to win this fight. Doesn't he? Warnings for themes of abuse, addiction, mental illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Episode 909  
** " **Dirty Water Dying"  
** **Chapter One**

_He is in the back of the car, his knees are bent and he is lying in the back of the car. But his knees don't hit the back of the passenger seat, his shoulders aren't hunched forward trying to fit, his head isn't quirked up at an odd sideways angle against the door, it's propped up on a lap._

_There's blood in his mouth, there's a warm hand on his side. He is twelve._

" _Shh, Sammy. It's okay."_

_Dean, Dean._

_His leg is wet and filled with heat, as he wakes up the ache grows and it's sharp with every bump in the road, they're going fast he realizes, so fast, and it's nighttime, and Dad is so quiet._

_He shouldn't have been out, he wasn't allowed out, but Dean had forgotten the binding thing, the string Uncle Bobby had given them to bind the monster and Dad and Dean were going to get killed if they didn't have what they needed, so Sam had gone out in the snow to find them, to give it to them, and -_

_He hadn't seen it. Dad was yelling and he should have listened, but he needed to give Dad the string, and he hadn't seen the monster and then all he saw was Dean's face, worried and pale in the moonlight, crying and yelling, angry, scared-_

_He is lying with his head in Dean's lap. One of Dean's hands is on his side, soothing and heavy and warm. The other is smoothing Sam's hair, and Sam is hurt, he's hurt and he's dying, he knows it, and he's sorry, he's sorry-_

" _Did we get it?" he says, and in the front, Dad draws in a sharp breath through his nose, stiff and annoyed._

_Dean frowns. "Yeah. We got it."_

" _Dean-"_

_He doesn't go on. He doesn't need to. Dean squeezes him at the hip, smoothes his hair down over his ear, his hand comes to rest on Sam's forehead, heavy and warm and solid Dean's hand on his forehead, and Dean says, "You're okay, kiddo. You're gonna be okay."_

_He hums. The tune is so familiar, but Sam can't place it. Dean is singing, but he can't make out the words. The radio isn't on, but he hears the gentle unresolving chords, the lyrical lead guitar line over top of the jangling strum on repeat, the story in the words he can't make out, Dean is almost plaintive, like this song is for Sam, to Sam, like he's afraid Sam will leave him someday, like Sam can ever leave, or like he'd ever want to. Like he can see a life for himself beyond this car, beyond Dad and Dean and the smell of blood and gunpowder and leather, beyond the soothing bump of the road as sure as any lullabye._

_Like there is another place besides Dean that could ever be home._

* * *

He did not wake up in the dungeon. He was in his bed, warm, wounds dressed, he could feel the stitches pull, he could feel the ache of his relocated thumb. His memory of the last couple of weeks faded back to him like remembering a dream, the feel of it more vibrant and clear than the actual details.

Flowers in a silver crown, the bright bright red of sacred ( _tainted_ ) blood in a porcelain bowl. The sulphur in the back of his throat. Days and days and days of hoping, of giving up.

Dean had come. Dean had come.

He half expected Dean to be sitting there by his bed when he opened his eyes. But he was alone, afternoon light streaming through the window. No idea how long he'd been sleeping. He'd been pushing it, tacking shoelaces to the end of his rope for God knew how long hoping for Dean, holding on for Dean.

_That boy can't wait for you to go and stay gone. He's been watching your ass for what, thirty years now?_

_That year he spent away while you were with grandpappy, that was the best year of his life._

_He misses_ Purgatory  _when the alternative is you._

But Dean had come, Dean had come.

Not to kill him, like Sam had briefly entertained. Of course not.

But how long would that last now? Now that he was - now that he had-

"I know, right?" Lucifer stalked the room, arms folded, gesturing casually outward. "I mean you're kinda damaged goods, seriously. You realize this is never going to be something you  _really_  get over, right? You'll never get rid of it. Just like me."

Sam shook his head. Blew out a breath. He could ignore Satan, for now he could, he had so much practice-

But god, the blood, the  _wrongness_  of being drained, that monster's mouth on him, those people singing, the children with their crown of silver and flowers, the sick sweet smell of them, if he never smelled the green grass scent of marigolds or field flowers again, that would be okay. Just another thing he could never find comfort in again. Like food, like sleep, like the warm press of complete dark, like someone's hand on his forehead singing, like  _everything_ -

He didn't deserve to feel like shit over it. He'd invited this poison into his life years ago.  _Their_  lives, and Kevin and Charlie didn't even know the danger he'd soon be. He did not deserve pity.

But God, he was scared.

* * *

Dean sat outside Sam's room, legs splayed out in front of him, hands loose in his lap, staring. The muffled sounds of Sam's hitched breathing told him when Sam was awake, not quite sobbing - Sam hadn't really  _cried_  in forever - but this hissing, shuddering sound, or sometimes mumbling conversation. He knew when Sam was asleep again because those defences came down and a soft, high keening wheedled into Dean's head from behind those doors. And that's when Dean went in, made sure there was water for Sam to drink, something he could try to eat. He checked Sam's bandages, his fever, he swiped a damp cloth over his forehead, the kid was just  _out_.

But he didn't  _have_  a fever and his wounds were healing, and he wasn't coughing - he was okay.

Dean laid his head back against the wall outside Sam's room. Two days Sam had been waking and sleeping, two days Dean had been avoiding him. There was blood on his hands, and for Sam, he'd fucking _bathe_  in it, but it didn't make it easy. That girl Constance, the girl Sam had begged Dean to protect - Still, Sam was alive, Sam was home, Sam was going to get through detox, and when it was over-

Well, he didn't know. A good long talk, maybe. Just to make sure Sam knew ... whatever he was suppose to know. Fuck.

Sam said dungeon. But Sam wasn't in the drying out stage yet, and Dean was content to say fuck whatever you want for now, for as long as possible, no one's going into that dungeon, never again would Sam be locked up in that dungeon, never again would it be Dean's doing, never never never-

But he sat outside Sam's room and waited and listened and had no idea what to do with him when the shit started, because he couldn't stay in his own room and who knew how soon it would start up, who knew how much they had made him  _drink_ -

"Hey."

Dean looked up.

"You've been sitting out here for two days," Kevin said. "You need to eat something. You need a shower."

"I can't, if he - I can't."

"Yeah, I get it." Kevin looked off, obviously impatient and frustrated, but no way was Dean telling this kid all of Sam's shit. "Whatever. But you owe me this much, okay?"

"Owe you-?"

"Of the two of us, who thought Sam had ditched us, and who thought there  _had_  to be something else going on?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You didn't  _find_  him, okay?" But Kevin was right about one thing. Dean had given up on Sam.  _Again_. Fuck, he didn't know how to do this.

"Whatever. Look. He's resting, he's healing. Come on. Shower." He held out a hand.

Dean looked back at the door behind him. Sam was quiet. And Dean did reek. And his back was on fire where the fenix had got her claws into him. And soon things would not be quiet anymore. "Fine." He took Kevin's hand and let himself be heaved to his feet.

He almost nodded off under the hot shower, thank god for annoying injuries. He let the cleansing water pour over him, reveled in it. Sam showered like seventeen times a day, but he didn't  _enjoy_  it the way Dean did. Sam did it because he felt impure - though Dean was just putting that together in the last few months, because of Sam's fevered admission that he'd felt unclean since he was a kid. But looking back, it was obvious - long showers after Ruby, red-rubbed skin after he started having visions, using up all the hot water after school when he was a teen, which Dean had just thought was a teen boy being a teen boy. He wouldn't have made such fun of him, smirked and thrown socks at him, if he'd known the truth.

Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair. The water around his feet was pink. He only ever felt tainted, unclean, when it was Sam's blood on him, Sam's blood painting him, Sam's blood on his shirt or on his knuckles, another failure, another betrayal to add to Sam's collection, the ways in which Dean had let him down-

He switched the water off. Worst shower ever. He probably needed some butterflies to hold the scratches on his back together, should have disinfected them and gotten someone to sew them up as soon as he'd gotten home. Whatever.

Kevin was waiting for him outside, dragged him through the common rooms where Dean glanced up at Sam's door - but then into the kitchen, where Kevin and Charlie had scrubbed everything and bought groceries, like real groceries. Onions, potatoes, tomatoes - he went to the fridge and found beef, chicken cutlets.

"Sam can't eat any of this-"

"The rest of us eat, though," Kevin pointed out.

"Sam told me," Charlie said, "that you used to cook, that if we got you ingredients, you'd cook." She shrugged. "This isn't about Sam, okay? This is about you."

Dean closed his eyes. Sam was upstairs, Sam could need him at any moment, he couldn't just be  _cooking_ -

The handle of a knife slid into his hand and he took it.

Fuck it. He -  _they_  had a family here. A family he wanted to keep safe, a family he needed to provide for. He wasn't used to having to spread it out, Sam  _and_  other people, but this wasn't a choice between them. It was an expansion. Sam would have wanted it. Sam  _loved_  it when Dean cooked.

He was lost in chopping the late vegetables for a second pot of stew when a soft cough interrupted the bickering nerds.

"Sam!" Charlie said, rushing toward him where he wavered in the doorway, one arm wrapped around his aching chest. Dean read off the list in his head by reflex:  _two broken ribs, bruised ones, that really gross bite wound, kid shouldn't be up-_  Sam held up a hand to stave Charlie off, but smiled.

"I smelled cooking-"

Dean went white. "I'm sorry, dude. I thought you were out. I didn't think-"

"It's okay. Dean, it's okay." Sam smiled, tired, but genuine. "I think, um. Actually." He watched the boiling pot, licked his lips nervously. "I could go for some stew, if there's enough. I can just pick out the-"

"Wait a few minutes, and I'll have this veggie-only version ready for ya, how about that."

Sam watched him, mouth open. Then he nodded. Dean grinned. It shouldn't have been a surprise that Dean knew what Sam's complaint was gonna be, but it made him feel good to guess anyway. He turned back to the burbling pot, shaking his head as Charlie and Kevin hovered over Sam. Sam waved off their help, chided them with  _I got all the way downstairs all by myself, ya know_  and they talked stern at him about doing that in the first place and it was so nice, so close, and Dean knew he was going to have to send them away for the next few days, once the shit started, but for now it was  _home_ , it was  _family_.

"So what's with the appetite," he said, kinda making conversation, kinda checking Sam's status.

Sam stopped mid-whatever he was saying to Charlie. "Um. I dunno. I just feel okay right now. Maybe um."

Dean turned. Sam was watching him, but the way he glanced at Kevin lining up a rolled up ball of paper to throw at Charlie was a question:  _what do they know?_

"Maybe this whole getting kidnapped thing kinda shocked your system," he said, so Sam wouldn't have to think something up. "Your body's forgetting the Trials crap for now because it knows you need sustenance."

Sam watched him a moment, then he nodded slow. "Yeah. Maybe."

It wasn't a logical argument, Sam had been on the verge of starvation for months it seemed. If his body was going to forget the Trials in favor of survival, it woulda done it before now. Dean set down a bowl of veggie stew in front of Sam, watched Sam while he ate, the first bite, Sam's eyes closed in such relief, bliss even. When this batch was going to be Kevin's, Dean had lined up a bunch of spices, but with Sam's appearance, he ditched most of them and settled for simplicity. For Sam even the bland version must have been heaven. He rolled that first bite around in his mouth, swallowed. Dean thought the kid might cry. But he just took another bite, and another, until his hands started to shake and his eyes started to drift closed, and that was enough.

Sam's spoon dipped into his bowl and stayed, he breathed himself steady a few moments.

"Sammy?"

Sam nodded, to no one, or to someone only he could see,  _whatever_ , and pushed back from the table. "I'm gonna-"

When he didn't go on, Charlie touched his shoulder. "We'll help-"

"No. No, I'm good." Sam looked up at Dean, smiled this sad smile. "I just want um. Nobody get up." Sam got up, hands hovered around him, but he got up on his own, careful, but he did it, and he looked at Dean again. "Thank you." Serious as prayer. Somber as a funeral.

The three of them watched him go. When he was safely out the door, safely out of earshot, Charlie hissed, "Are you ever gonna tell us what they did to him? I mean besides the obvious."

Dean pressed his lips together. "No. Eat."

* * *

Sam said he needed some quiet. And that was fine. Dean would give him some quiet, but if he was well enough to get downstairs, well enough to  _eat_ , real food for the first time in however long, he was well enough to need some talking, to do some talking, to get his bearings and maybe he'd be okay using Dean as a compass for now. So he gave him an hour, watched the kids eat and stopped a food fight before it started, what were they, twelve? And then he went up to knock on Sam's door.

No answer.

"Come on, Sammy," he said. Silence. "Okay, I'm comin' in, not because I don't respect your right to privacy or whatever bullshit I'm supposed to be respecting, but because for all I know you can't actually answer me. Got it?"

He waited another couple of seconds, then tried the door. Thank god it was unlocked, or he'd be replacing it sooner rather than later.

Sam's room was empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Episode Nine  
** " **Dirty Water Dying"  
** **Chapter Two**

He'd only had Sam back for a few days. And he was already gone again. Dean swept a hunter's eye over the room - the unmade bed, the sheets where Sam had bled through a bandage before Dean had come up to change it, the light coming through the window, the ornate desk it seemed like Sam had started using, there was a pen, there was the pencil box, there was a piece of paper, folded-

Dean squinted, crossed the room.

A piece of paper folded in half, with his name written on it:

_Dean. Send them away for a while, will you? And you should maybe go too, just take a vacation or something. Please. I'll be fine. I'll see you in a few days, just leave me alone for a while. You don't need to be here for this._

_-Sam_

Dean rolled his eyes. Way to give a guy a heart attack.

He pushed into the dungeon, pissed. "I  _just_  got you back, and you disappear on me?"

But he stopped himself short at the sight of a little medical cot Sam had dragged into the room from the infirmary, a little cache of water bottles, an extra blanket - "Jesus, no.  _No_  Sam, this is stupid."

Sam was curled into a corner of the room. The ancient lighting wasn't great, but Dean saw he was shaking, teeth chattering.

"This is how it works," Sam breathed. "I told you to leave me alone."

"Sam-"

"You know it has to be done, Dean. You know it. Send them away. Cas and Crowley too." He took a breath. "And you. You go too. You shouldn't have to listen- You, you don't know what they-"

"So tell me."

"No."

"Fine." Dean turned on his heel, stood there a minute. "You know what, screw that." He turned back. "You tell me what I need to know to get you through this."

Sam didn't move from the corner. For a big guy, he folded down small. Dean skirted the cot, temper flaring.

"Sam, goddammit-"

" _No_."

Dean dropped to his knees in front of Sam, knotted his fists in Sam's shirt, shook him, and Sam's shoulders went up, tension in every line, eyes squeezed shut.

"Sam."

Sam shook his head. Under Dean's hands, Sam stilled. He took and released a breath. Looked up at Dean, rebellious, angry.

"I don't need you to 'get me through this,'" he growled. "I don't want you here."

Dean reeled. "What?"

"You heard me. I don't  _need_  you. I've done this before, or don't you remember?"

"Oh I remember." Dean pushed him back into the wall again. The vision of Sam when Dean had finally found him, half out of his head murmuring  _don't leave me_  over and over was hot in his chest, and the bastard still had the nerve to say this shit? "How could I fucking forget?"

_Don't leave me don't -_ The reek of Sam's blood, all around them in that dim room where he'd been kept, the leather restraints that had held him down, and the iron shackles hanging on the wall against the worn and solid stone of the dungeon, the cut of a blade-

"Dean-"

"The things I  _go_  through for you, Sam, and you think you don't  _need_  me?"

Black smoke, the initial press and eventual give of an edge through flesh-

"Dean!"

Dean blinked. He had Sam's throat under his hand, pressing upward, thumb in Sam's cheek, the gash under his eye had started to bleed again and he watched the red bead trace over Sam's flushed skin, spread around the edge where his thumb met Sam's face, drawing a border, between torturer and tortured - Dean let Sam go and fell backward on his ass. Sam sank, hand up to his cheek.

"Dean," he breathed.

Dean fled.

* * *

Fuck, fuck. This is why he had resisted  _dungeon_. God he could still feel it singing in his blood in his marrow this thing inside him forged in hell and lying in wait-

Dean squeezed his eyes shut a moment. Poured himself another drink. Kevin and Charlie were gone, hanging at Charlie's apartment a few hours drive away. They'd be gone a week, living a normal life for a while with creepy uncles Crowley and Cas keeping an eye on the prophet in case of fuglies.

So Dean was alone.

Sam didn't look too bad. Dark under his eyes maybe, a little pale, though that could have been the blood loss. So fine, let him stew in a corner for a while. See if Dean cared. Anyway, what Dean remembered was that screaming came first, and then he could pay attention to when Sam needed to be strapped down. Probably take a few days for him to get really bad.

Until then. Whiskey. Lots. And this time, no goddamn Kevin Tran to look at him with pity, judgement. The kids were gone, Cas and Crowley were gone, and Dean hadn't been able to set foot back in the dungeon in hours.

So okay. Happy Sam? Getting everything the way you fucking wanted it, you little asshole.

_Don't leave me Dean, don't leave me down there, Dean-_

What the fuck ever.

_I'm in trouble Dean, I'm in trouble-_

What the fuck, Sammy.

What the fuck am I supposed to do, Sammy?

* * *

Sam rested his head against the wall. He didn't see what was in front of him. Just Dean's face. No wonder he hadn't wanted to put Sam in here. Sam had essentially created a no-Dean-zone, coming in here. He felt vaguely guilty about it, but on the other hand, he'd been trying to get Dean to take a break from the bunker during this in the first place.

He didn't need to be here for this.

And there was an added benefit: if he knew Dean was gone, he'd know that anytime Dean showed up, he wasn't real, that what he was saying wasn't real. Dean wasn't going to leave the bunker, but okay. Okay. Dean wasn't likely to show back up in the dungeon, so same diff, maybe.

He already felt like shit. He was shaky in the kitchen trying to eat, but being around people had helped more than he'd realized it would. Normalcy, distraction, laughing. Made his problems seem surmountable. Made him feel like he could come out the other side.

But there was every chance he wouldn't make it this time. The Trials juice was still there, buried under the thrum of dying demon blood, borrowed strength, and when it left, the sickness would be back, and who knew if he could survive it this time.

He already felt too hot and too cold, shivering and sweating. Thirsty, weak. He steadied himself and got up, using the wall for support - a step, then a step away from it, and with the loss of contact grounding him, he felt so light and unbound, no direction was  _up,_  no breath could be in or out, in and out were relative, he spun so slow, until his knees hit the floor-

Obviously there was gravity even if he didn't sense it, obviously,  _trust that there is gravity_ -

"Unless there isn't."

Shut up Satan.

Sam crawled forward toward the water. Leaned back against the leg of the cot with a bottle in his hand. Laughed. He couldn't open it, he couldn't get a grip with his shaking hands, couldn't twist with his recently dislocated thumb. Ha. Ha ha.

His chin touched his chest.

"Stubborn."

"Who you talkin' to, Sammy?"

"Shut up, Satan."

Lucifer appeared behind him, sat on the cot with Sam between his legs, draped his arms over Sam's shoulders, clasped his hands on Sam's chest, rested his chin on Sam's head. "We never get quality time anymore."

Sam drew his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, leaking tears he hoped Lucifer didn't notice. But oh. He noticed. The cold of his fingertips brushing them away, oh. Oh.

No, he probably wasn't going to survive this one.

* * *

_He never did scream_ , Dean thought. That wasn't fair, changing up the order of events. He was drunk enough that the sight of Sam held against the wall in mid-air - arms flat out to the sides, mouth open in agony but completely silent - sobered him up to slight buzz, slow arms and a feeling of detachment, but aware. Good thing he hadn't drunk much more. Or much less, really, because the whole thing was truly horrifying and god knew he didn't want to be fully sober for this.

Sam's back arched away from the wall, his hands clenched, a line of blood drew across his stomach through his shirt, and that spurred Dean into action with a kind of drunken shove, because what the  _hell_?

"Come on, Sam," he muttered, reaching for Sam well before he was actually within reach. Closer, it was clear that Sam was slowly but surely sliding  _up_  the wall, feet straining for the ground- Fuck. Fuck. Dean leapt for Sam's foot; Sam slid down the wall a couple of feet and contact with Dean seemed to have brought him out of the silent space he had disappeared into, because he shuddered to life, gasping, choking out  _no no no_ -

Dean pulled down with all his weight, Sam's legs kicking, digging in against the wall. He was gonna have some real nice bruises on the back of his heels. "Come on," he muttered. "Come back to me, bro, you gotta help me here-"

Sam couldn't help. His head was pressed against the wall, turned away, mouth moving, eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't hear Dean, and he couldn't help himself.

Dean dragged him downward against the force pushing him up, redoubled his efforts as blood dripped from Sam's sliced shirt. This was different, this was wrong.

Dean wrestled Sam to the ground. Sat across his hips and held him down as Sam reached out for - well who knew what Sam was seeing, red faced, mouth open, straining. This had been easier when Bobby was alive. Maybe he shouldn't have sent Cas away. Maybe he shouldn't have come down here in the first place. Maybe he should have just done what Sam had asked and left him alone. But there was red on Sam's shirt, and Sam wasn't screaming.

Sam twisted, tried to twist out from under Dean, tilted his shoulders, threw his arm over to grasp at the poured concrete floor, and Dean levered him back, forearm across Sam's collarbone to hold him still.

"Sam, Sam listen to me, I gotcha, I gotcha. This'll pass. It's okay. It's just me. Don't try to get away. It's just me and I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself, okay?"

If Sam heard him, he didn't - or wasn't able to - acknowledge it. Then a line of red began at Sam's hairline, at the temple, and drew down slow and sure, down to the cheekbone, and Dean stared. Sam's mouth stilled, frozen open. He wasn't done fighting, but he was done muttering, he was on silent, and Dean recognized it from-

_No sounds of distress from behind Sam's door._

Fuck.

"Sam, Sam you gotta snap out of this-" Dean looked around the room, at a loss. Then he caught his breath and held it, jammed his thumb into Sam's shoulder. "Sam," he said, leaning close. " _This_  is real.  _This._ " A moment later, the line being drawn down Sam's face stopped, and Sam wasn't fighting  _Dean_  anymore, just seizing in general, mouth open but slack and he wasn't  _fighting_  so Dean could handle it, and a few minutes after that, Sam was in a boneless pile under Dean's hands, head lolling, breath coming short.

"Okay sasquatch. Time to lock you down." Sam didn't help him, but he didn't resist either, and Dean got his arm over his shoulder well enough to drag him to the cot where he laid him down, arranged his arms and legs and head.

"Dean," Sam breathed. It was a question. Sam's eyes opened to slits, unfocused, not quite on Dean. Then as Dean took his wrist and began to wrap the cloth around it, cloth Sam had so helpfully provided, Sam pulled back.

"Don't-"

"Come on, Sam. You said yourself, it has to happen."

"Don't, don't, Dean-"

Dean closed his eyes a moment. Shook his head. "I don't have a choice, buddy." And Sam fought him, but Sam had placed these cloths here himself, he'd attached these handcuffs to the bed himself. In his right mind, Sam knew what had to be done. So Dean ignored him as he begged, ignored him as he attempted to appeal to Dean's better nature, how unfair it was, he hadn't wanted to do it, please understand, he didn't need to be locked down like a wild animal, he didn't need to - don't Dean please  _please-_

* * *

Dean pulled the dungeon doors closed and locked them. He didn't want to do this again. He didn't want Sam to have to go through this again. He'd gone more or less hopeless once Dean had clicked the last handcuff around his right ankle, stopped struggling and just stared at the ceiling with this look on his face like he expected Dean to kill him any second now. Dean had unbuttoned Sam's shirt to remove the ruined teeshirt and dress the long shallow cut across his abdomen, and the deep bruises of his cracked ribs were stark purple splotches on too reedy a chest. He'd pulled at the stitches in his side, hard to stitch up in the first place because it was like something had taken a bite out of him, and it was starting to look infected - did antibiotics interact with demon blood? On top of the shivering, feverish flushed mess of withdrawal, Sam was too thin, too sick, too busted up, and Lucifer was-

Lucifer was carving him up, hallucination turned real with the onset of the psychic seizure thing. Dean'd thought it was bad when the crap was just flinging him around the room, but now- By the time Dean was done dressing Sam's injuries, Sam's eyes had slid shut and he was out for the count. Dean headed back upstairs, phone to his ear.

"Doc. We need you."

" _I told you to call as soon as he reported-_ "

"Just pack a bag and get here."

Half an hour later, Amelia appeared on their doorstep.

"That was fast. They move Texas without tellin' me?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

Dean frowned. "You were waiting for Sam to start losing his shit again."

"I was worried you'd try to manage on your own, yeah. You were overdue to check in." She walked ahead of him, the little shrew, and set her bag down on the war room table. "So what's the emergency? Where is everyone?" She paused, suddenly defensive. "Where's Sam?"

Dean shook his head, went to the cabinet and got a couple of glass. Once he'd filled each halfway with whiskey, he sat and shoved one toward her. "Okay," he said. "Here's the deal, and it ain't pretty."

"He's seeing things again, right?"

"I wish that was all of it." Dean shook his head, downed his glass in a couple of swallows. Shrugged. "a few weeks ago, Sam disappeared. We were on a hunt, got, uh, separated. We thought he was just pissed-"

"So by 'separated,' you mean you fought."

Dean spared her a look. "Yeah. Anyway. We thought he was just... taking some time to himself. I've been trying... to..." He frowned.

"Give him space?" she prompted.

"He always did run off, you know? When shit was going bad for him, he'd take off, deal on his own, but he always came back."

Amelia sipped at her drink, nodded. "Yeah."

"And he was doin' good, you know. Hunting okay, pretty stable. Saved  _my_  ass on our last hunt. So."

"So you let him go, to deal on his own."

"Yeah. Only he hadn't just run off. He was taken."

"Taken." Amelia leaned forward. Dean could see her imagining scenarios, calculating the possible damage. "But you got him back, right?"

"Yeah, yeah we did. After we let him just - for two weeks, we just thought he was pissed." Dean laughed, a brittle, ugly thing. "Fuck. He's-" He pressed his lips together, shook his head.

"Two weeks with a kidnapper, the sort of kidnapper you guys are likely to cross - it'll take time, Dean. Where is he?"

"Wait. What they did to him - hell  _I_  don't even know all of it, okay? He won't talk to me. And right now, he's out cold, which is probably a blessing."

Amelia watched him. She had that set to her shoulders, the line of her mouth that he recognized meant she wasn't afraid to knock his teeth in if he didn't get to the point and quick.

Dean swiped her glass and downed it too.

"They... dosed him. With something. Something um, regular doctors can't help with. Something ...  _really_  addictive."

"Like... supernatural heroine or something?"

"Something like, sure. And he's gotta dry out. This stuff is rough, and I don't know how suped up they got him, I don't know  _anything_  except that he's gonna come down hard. And with Lucifer, and the Trials crap, and whatever else they did to him - I mean I had to relocate his thumb, sew up so many - I just don't know how to pull him through this one. I wondered if you could maybe... knock him out or something while he's detoxing."

"Uh... You remember what happened last time I did that, right?"

"It'd be worth it. And you'd fix him back up when he was over it. I don't want him goin' through this."

"I need to see him."

* * *

Sam was still. Eyes closed, no breath in him left to breathe, maybe he didn't need to, maybe there was lead in his marrow, maybe he was dead or dying, maybe it was just over.

"That'd be nice, wouldn't it?"

Sam ignored him, but there was a real slash in his abdomen where Lucifer had drawn the blade, there was a real pain there, there was a real pulse of pain along the side of his face where Lucifer had started to skin him, even Dean had been worried.

If it was Dean. He hadn't thought Dean would come back down to the dungeon, and if he would just stay away, Sam would know for sure whether he was real, but there was no way to know, even when he dressed Sam's wounds, even when he pressed down on Sam and gave him some gravity to hold on to - but then he couldn't hear when Sam begged him, like Sam wasn't there at all, like he was running through the motions.

But he was. Because they'd done this before.

"But would Dean really be able to just ignore you like that?"

He didn't know. He didn't know anymore. After purgatory, after Sam had failed him just one too many times, after Dean had mistaken him for a stranger in this very dungeon, after after after, yes yes he would-

"No, he wouldn't, Sam." Lucifer sounded irritated.

No he wouldn't.

"That's better."

After after even after - but Lucifer was real - Or Frederick was real. Lucifer could still be banished when Dean - Dean had ground his fingers into Sam's weak shoulder, right where he knew it'd hurt most, clawed his fingers in to get him to behave-

Oh. Dug his fingers in like Frederick had, and Sam had opened his mouth and gone still, God, like he'd been  _trained_  and he was still there, he was still there, he was  _still there_  and now he could hear it, the voices were talking through the muddled haze of his hearing, under the background noise of a Lucifer he was pretty sure was a hallucination, people talking about him, a man and a woman, and then one of them went for his arm, they were going to bleed him, he was still there and they were going to bleed him and he wasn't going to survive and he'd be letting Dean down  _again_ -

* * *

Sam was still asleep, laid out on his back as comfortable as Dean could get him on the infirmary cot.

Amelia looked the room over when Dean opened the doors for her. It was clear she was unimpressed with the set up, little shake of her head, raised brows and blown out breath, but she swept forward and knelt at Sam's side to take his vitals. "Elevated heart rate," she said. "Breathing kinda quick - what did you say they did to him?"

"Far as I could figure, they were draining his blood for some kinda cult thing. A lot of it. He's okay though, right? It's been a few days. He's been resting in his room until just today. He seemed okay. Lucid. Ish."

She didn't answer, just set her mouth into a frown and continued. Dean recognized some of it from his own training, some shit they never actually did but Dad had drilled into them as kids. Dehydration check, pupil reactions. She reached into her bag and pulled out a capped syringe.

"What's that for?"

"I want some blood to send to my friend in town. " She ghosted her fingertips down Sam's arm as she spoke, without really looking at him, tugged at his sleeve to roll it up. "You saw him for Sam's shoulder, remember?"

"That guy. Sure. But I'm telling you, a regular doctor can't deal with this kinda stuff."

She made a face at him, prepared to fight. "What could it hurt? If-"

But then Sam was gasping awake, fighting, straining against the handcuffs, pulling at the left one and attempting to twist his whole body around.

Dean went for his other hand, only to find it clenched onto the mattress pad beneath him,. He turned his face into his pillow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pressed tight, turned himself as far as he could into the pillow, trying to turn onto his side, straining his bad shoulder, pulling his swollen hand against the cuffs. He didn't seem to feel that pain.

"You're okay," Dean began, prying his hand from the mattress.

On his other side, Amelia started counting,  _in two three four, out two three four five six, you can do it_ -

But Sam wasn't calming down, he wasn't seizing, but he wasn't calming down, he wasn't even listening to the doc. He was muttering into his pillow,  _no no no_ , and he was gonna dislocate his thumb again if he kept trying to pull out of the handcuffs. Dean turned him by the shoulder, gently as he could but that wasn't very gentle, if he wanted Sam to lay back-

But he put his hand on Sam's shoulder and pressed and Sam went easier than Dean had expected. He gave up. He just gave up and went along with Dean's guidance, but his face was lined in defiance, murderous anger, and he said, well,  _mumbled_ , "My brother's gonna kill you."

_Fuck,_  Sammy.

Dean's hands went to Sam's face, careful of the gash on one side, the long shallow line of red on the other, pressed his fingers into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck, made him look Dean in the eye. "You did it, Sam. You already did it. That bastard is dead, and you did it yourself. You hearin' me, kid? You're out of there, you're home safe."

Sam frowned, squeezed his eyes shut, brows together, shook his head. Dean didn't let him go, just brushed his thumb over Sam's cheek, feeling inadequate to the task and vaguely embarrassed.

"Come on, you can work it out. I'm here. I'm real. You remember killing that monster. You remember me coming, you remember how we cut that bitch's tail off-"

A sharp draw of breath from Amelia on the other side of the cot.

"You and me, we did it. Remember?"

The wrinkles in Sam's forehead smoothed, but he didn't look less distraught, just more hopeless. "It wasn't real."

"Yes it was. Open your eyes. Look around. You're home, okay? You locked yourself in here and you're going through some shit, but you're home."

Sam opened his eyes on command, looked around. Saw Amelia and something in his resolve broke, and that hurt, Sam being broken down hurt something really essential in Dean that he couldn't pinpoint but had always been aware of. But Sam saw Amelia and  _that_  confused him enough that doubt, maybe relief, maybe terror crossed his face and he looked back at Dean, brows high, mouth open, breath coming fast.

"Dean?"

"In the flesh."

Sam's eyes drifted shut, he swallowed, relaxed. Something in Dean loosened.

"Why is she here," Sam breathed.

"Because you're overdue for your appointment," Dean said. "Like way overdue."

"Get rid of her-"

"Can't do that, kiddo. You need her."

Sam made a face, a moment of desperate frustration, and then he gave it up. He was giving a lot up. He looked at Dean, lifted his arm, the handcuff clanked. "Can you- Please."

"Sorry, Sammy, no can do."

" _Please-"_

"You know this is how it has to be. You told me so yourself-"

"Dean, can I talk to you outside?" Amelia said quietly.

"No. I know what you're gonna say, and no. You don't know how to deal with this. We do. Right Sammy?"

Sam sniffed, looked away from Dean, but he gave that up too, nodded.

Amelia rolled her eyes and looked at Sam, smiled. "I'm gonna check over the rest of your injuries, is that okay?"

Sam nodded again, fight gone. Amelia frowned at Dean and went to work. Peeked under the dressing covering the line across Sam's stomach, the butterfly bandages on one cheek, the treated but unbandaged lined down the other side of his face. She tapped on all of his ribs; Sam didn't react even though they must have hurt. She reached for his shoulder and Sam tensed-

"Sam, I'm just going to check, okay? It's me." She waited for him to make eye contact. He seemed like he still wasn't sure this whole thing wasn't a hallucination, and while she went about the rest of her exam, Dean was busy imagining the worst case scenario.

Sam with Lucifer hounding him, Lucifer who could change Sam's reality at will into whatever Sam's fucked up subconscious thought would hurt him most, because that's what Lucifer would have done. Dean had assumed Lucifer had tricked Sam into thinking he was free at least once, considering how his hallucinations had manifested before, the whole "Barbie dream house" thing. So now, a dream within a dream - Lucifer whipping up a grand rescue, and as far as Sam knew, the whole kidnapping thing was fake too, just another dream where he was out of the cage.

Jesus.

"Jesus," Amelia said, and Dean frowned, because if she'd been reading him- She had her hands at Sam's wrists, purple and red streaking out from under the padding Dean had put between Sam and the metal. She looked up at Dean.

"Okay. Now I really need to talk to you."

* * *

They left, Sam was alone.

"Not really alone," Lucifer said. He crouched next to the cot, pressed his lips together in sympathy. "I mean you've figured it out, right? You're not really here."

"Yes I am."

"Aw, kiddo."

Sam ignored him.

"I feel for you, I really do. I'm just trying to help. You wanna know the truth, Sammy? Dean's not coming. Look. If you focus hard enough, isn't this the same cot you've been strapped to for weeks? Look down at your wrists, Sam. Still trapped, still bound down-"

"Aren't you supposed to be convincing me I'm really still in the Cage?"

Lucifer watched him askance. "Got me, kid. Always were too clever. What was it, too Inception-y?"

"I'm not in the Cage."

"Suuure."

"I'm not - not back  _there_  either."

"Poor Sammy."

"You wanna just cut to the torture already, or you gonna try to bore me to death this time?"

"It's just as well anyway," Lucifer said idly. "If dear Dean knew what you had done-"

_A monster, Sam, a vampire-_

"Shut up."

Lucifer vanished as the doors opened again and Dean came back in, alone.

"Where's Amelia?" Sam said.

"Um. She left, Sammy."

Sam frowned, then the shame crashed into him - she'd seen the utter mess of him, Dean had told her what he'd done, what'd he'd done years before, and she'd left. Decided he wasn't worth helping. He hadn't known, hadn't realized it, but he'd been so hopeful that this time there'd be some relief, this time he wouldn't believe every breath was killing him, this time every moment wouldn't be agony. He'd been hopeful.

And she left.

"Oh."

Dean grimaced. "Yeah. So. It's fine. We've done this before. But it's a little different this time, isn't it Sammy?"

"Dean, I-"

"Don't want to talk about it? That's fine. I already know." Dean came to the cot, didn't sit, he loomed over Sam, a shadow in the already shabby light of the dungeon.

"You do?"

"Oh yeah. Obviously, the demon blood. Just how much of it, though..." Dean tilted his head in some smug doubt. "Seems like maybe you liked it just a little. Just a little, right? It's okay, you can admit it. I mean I'm practically an alcoholic, and I can admit I like the buzz. Come on, let's get everything on the table. No lies."

Sam swallowed nervously. Now that Dean had mentioned it, Sam could smell the sour sweet whiff of whiskey.

"No, Dean I swear-"

"Don't you lie to me, Sam." Dean towered over him. Sam pulled at the cuffs, just a little, not enough to make it a Thing, to make it look like he was asking to be released again. "Don't you lie to me anymore, Sam. Me and Amelia had a little talk. I know about everything. I know how often you're seeing Lucifer, and you don't even trust me enough to tell me. I know how good it felt when you gave in and drank - how long'd that take anyway? A day? Two? That's my boy," he said, dripping loathing. He stalked toward the back wall of the dungeon, where the enchanted cuffs hung (where once Sam had hung, where once Sam had screamed). He fingered them almost fondly.

"Dean?"

"You know I have tried. I mean what more are we supposed to do here? You are so broken you can't even finish the Trials right. I mean all of that was for nothing, you get that, right? Wendigo boy and cupcake girl and Sarah, they all died for nothing, and you got this pet demon who killed them following you like a puppy. And I'm supposed to nurse you through this,  _again_? You know most families have the good sense to drop the black sheep druggie after the first or second dry out. You are so fucking lucky you have me."

"Dean, I can't- I don't-"

"I don't wanna hear it, man. I'm just thinkin'. Maybe we should split up. You know, get through this, and then we go our separate ways, just call it quits. I can't fix you, dude. I've tried. I can't just keep... not living my life-"

_He misses Purgatory when the alternative is you._

"I know, Dean, I know and I  _want_  you to live your life, but I didn't - you have to believe me, I didn't-"

"Come on, Sam. That's not even the worst part, and you know it."

"What?" Sam watched him, cold spreading through him. He had secrets. Locked away things never meant to breathe clean air, tight in his chest, in his terrible heart. Things Dean couldn't know. Things Dean was bound to find out.

Dean dropped the engraved iron cuff and it fell against the wall with a clank. He turned to Sam. "The worst part is, you don't even know me."

"What? Yes I do."

Dean bared his teeth in a wide grimace. "Noooo ya don't. Not as well as you think. And not as well as you should. I mean, you know I'm Dean. But I've seen you watching something that's not there. And the way you sometimes look at me, so confused. I know your secret Sam."

"Shut up."

"You probably can't help it. Not your fault. Right?"

Trick question. He couldn't agree or he'd be admitting to the whole thing.

"Shut  _up_. Dean-"

"Am I your brother, Sammy?"

Sam stared.  _Who's your brother, Sammy?_  Lucifer whispered from the corner.

"You don't even know which one of us you belong to. You said it in Boston man. I'm not your brother." Dean took a step toward the cot, the reek of whiskey boiling in Sam's stomach as Dean got closer. Nausea rose. "But you're wrong, Sam. I  _am_  your brother. I am. And you're mine." He reached back behind him, pulled his knife, the demon blade. It glinted in the antique light. "You're more demon than human now. But you  _are_  mine."

Sam stared, started to struggle. He strained his bonds, felt the cloth slip and the metal bite into his bruised wrists, wet on them, blood on them, it didn't matter. Dean was coming toward him with the knife, and he was drunk and he was obviously under the influence of what this dungeon did to him but nothing he'd said was even wrong so Sam couldn't exactly argue and god Sam wished Dean had gone away for a few days and let Sam suffer through this alone, coming into the dungeon was a bad idea, the worst thing Sam could have done and this was his fault, but he couldn't let Dean do this, he couldn't let Dean do something he wouldn't forgive himself for later-

Dean dropped to his knees beside Sam's cot, leveled his intense gaze on him. "Stay. Still."

Sam stilled. His breath came quick enough he was getting light-headed, even on top of the withdrawal. "Don't-"

"Shut up." Dean raised the knife, looked at it in the light, rocked it so that it reflected into Sam's face. "Who's your brother?"

"You are. You are, I swear."

"Who's your brother? What's his  _name_?"

"Dean. Dean."


	3. Chapter 3

**Episode Nine  
** **“Dirty Water Dying”  
** **Chapter Three**

_ Twenty Minutes Earlier _

Amelia and Dean left Sam in the dungeon, half conscious but doing mostly okay after his little freakout.  Dean led her through the catacombs and into one of the reading rooms down there, next to the room he was aware Crowley sometimes disappeared to when his little Sam-moments got to be too noticeable.  

It was empty now, of course.  The entire bunker was empty, and it  _ felt _ empty, it echoed hollow, knowing everyone who’d come to live with them, all of their little family, was gone.  

Dean pulled a chair away from the wall for Amelia, slammed it into the middle of the floor for her, and took the one at the desk himself.

“So what’s up, Doc?”

“Where to begin?” she said.  She didn’t sit, just paced.  “What do you know about this drug?”

Dean shrugged, leaned forward with his hands between his knees, didn’t look at her.  “We’ve got a pretty good account of the effects.  You don’t have to worry about it, okay?  You’re here for one thing--”

“Yeah.  I am.  I’m here for Sam, because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“The hell I don’t--”

“You don’t.” She turned to him.  “He’s obviously been strapped down for most or all of his kidnapping, if those bruises mean anything.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And you go ahead and handcuff him to a cot the same way his kidnappers must have?  When he’s having hallucinations?  When he’s unsure of his reality?”

“I get it, okay?” Dean said.  “And it sucks.  But we aren’t just dealing with his head crap now--”

“Right, this mystery drug.”

“Yeah.”  Dean took a breath.  She had a knack for getting under his skin under the best of circumstances, and this wasn’t that.  “Look, this thing he’s coming down from, it’s gonna do stuff to him.  Fling him around the room.”  He watched her completely  _ not _ understand.  “Literally, it’ll pick him up and throw him against the walls.  It already has.  So yeah, he gets strapped down.  It’s not like I get off on it okay?  That’s my little brother in there.”

“Even so, Dean.  You are not equipped for this, not physically and not mentally--”

“Yeah, thanks--”

“I  _ mean  _ there are procedures.  Did you happen to do some research about how to properly dry someone out?  I get that you can’t take him to a facility, Dean.  But I hope you are aware that some drugs can’t be stopped cold turkey.  Some actually  _ require _ a tapering off--”

“You’re suggesting we give him more of the stuff?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, because I don’t know enough yet.  And that’s my point, Dean.  You are so happy to rush to whatever you think is best.  But you don’t have the skillset to make snap decisions about his medical care, and you apparently don’t have the patience to even do some basic research.”

“Sam’s  _ fine _ .”

“Okay, look.”  Amelia jerked the chair to her and dropped into it.  “You say you know what this drug does, fine, but even you admit there are complications in Sam’s case.  His Lucifer hallucinations, the trauma of the kidnapping.  You need to think straight about this, Dean.  Or better yet, just let me handle it.”

“Oh no.  I’m involved, every step.  You’re here as a courtesy, because I think you still love him.”

That shut her up a moment.  But then she took a breath and looked at him evenly.  “Look, I understand the necessity in restraining him, but we’re going to try something that will keep him safe without triggering memories of the kidnapping.  Or, you know, posing a choking risk if he vomits.  Maybe sitting up.  Maybe -- and I know this is a huge concept for you--”  The angry sarcasm in her voice was caustic.  “--but  _ maybe  _ we don’t restrain him at all, and we just watch him, and at the first signs, we strap him down and ride it out  _ with  _ him, so he doesn’t ever have to wake up and wonder.  It’s not like we have anything else to do but watch him.”

Dean nodded, pressed his lips together.  Stay with Sam while he was screaming, while he was begging.  Yeah.  He gave her forty-five seconds tops before she beat feet.

“Good.  Now tell me about this drug. What else happens?”

Dean frowned at her, rolled his eyes.  “Hallucinations, I think.  Uh, pain.  Screaming. Psychic seizures are a thing. I guess normally they’d fling him around, but this is... before I called you, he was pinned to the wall and... something  _ cut _ him.  That’s not supposed to happen--”

She quirked a brow at that.  “O...kay?  Wow.”

“That’s why I’m saying, you have to knock him out, doc.  I’d do it with drugs, but I don’t know if mixing whiskey and beer is a great idea.”

Amelia watched him a moment, sympathetic.  “It would probably lessen the pain, the upset.  But he’ll still dream.  He may still seize.  And Dean, he’ll still experience this.  Putting him out may only benefit us.”

“But there’s a chance it’ll benefit him, right?  Anything’s better than nothing.  So you’ll do it?”

“No.  Not unless Sam agrees.  You can’t just force treatment on people who are able to consent, Dean.”

“Sam’s not able-- he’s out of his gourd--”

“A, what did I tell you about that kind of language?  B, of course he’s able.  He’s detoxing, not comatose.  I mean you talked him lucid yourself in there.  And C, what makes you so defensive?  Why do you think he’ll say no?”

Dean frowned at her.  “He’s weird, okay?  I don’t know.”

“We--”  She paused, listening.  

“What?”

“Shh.”

And then he heard it.  Sam’s voice, getting louder.  Dean closed his eyes.

_ Dean.  Dean, please.  Dean!  Let me out, let me go, please-- _

Amelia stood from her chair.  Dean caught her around the wrist.  “He’s fine.”

She stood there, frowning.  “But shouldn’t we--”

“He’s  _ fine _ .  It’ll pass.”

“ _ How _ did you say you knew about this drug?”

“I didn’t.”

“Mhmm.”  She stared at him, relentless, annoying, oppressive, and Dean opened his mouth to tell her to leave if she wasn’t going to put Sam under, but then Sam screamed, and she said, “Screw this,” and turned on her heel to find her way back through the maze toward the sound of Sam’s voice.  Dean followed.

“He’s not going to do anything but beg to be let out,” Dean reasoned.  “This isn’t the time to talk rational to him, okay?”

“How many years have you been practicing medicine?  Oh, that’s right.  You can’t even work the internet.”

Sam was practically sobbing by the time they reached the door, which was par for the course, detox-wise.  It was weak and wibbly, filled with hard-breathing, the occasional high-pitched weal, but that was to be expected.  Sam had been fighting fit the first go ‘round, and he’d still been reduced to a sweaty sick mess.  This time he was fighting injury and Trials crap and Lucifer.  So.

“Unlock it.”

“Come on, I told you--”

“There isn’t even a window into this room.  How are you planning to keep your eye on him?  How are you going to know if he is in physical distress--”

“He’s in distress all the time.”

“Un. Lock. It.  _ Now _ .”

“Dean,” came Sam’s voice from behind the locked swing shelving.  “Dean don’t, don’t  _ please-- _ ”

“See, he doesn’t want me to,” Dean said, smug.

“He doesn’t even know we’re out here, and you know it.”  She tapped her foot.

And then he heard Sam’s voice shrink to a wheedling word, over and over,  _ Dean Dean Dean _ , and the handcuffs rattled, caught and held, and Dean unlocked the door.

“What the shit--”

Blood dripped to the floor, a few bright spatters in the grey-yellow shadow of the cot beneath Sam.  Sam pulled on the cuff, the cloth had slipped and yet he pulled against it, cut into himself as he pulled. Otherwise he was stock still but for his mouth, repeating Dean’s name.

“Sam, Sam,” Dean said, rushing to Sam’s side.  He pulled Sam’s arm to give the handcuff some slack, and on the other side, Amelia did the same.  Dean watched Sam’s face for some kind of...  _ something _ that could tell him whether this was something real, or some trauma thing, a flashback, what was he supposed to  _ do _ .  Sam relaxed at the contact, not out of relief, but maybe out of misery.  The dam was maybe breaking; Sam squeezed his eyes shut and wet streaked down his face. He rolled his head toward Dean listlessly, blinking slow and wet.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, breathy.  “Dean I’m  _ sorry _ , I’m sorry, what can I  _ do _ ?”

“Shh, shh, none of this is your fault, okay?”

“I swear, I swear Dean--”

“Dean,” Amelia said then, and Dean looked over, then followed her gaze to Sam’s chest.  The buttons had been popped off -- Dean had stripped off his ruined tee shirt to dress his wound, but he’d rebuttoned the flannel because Sam was shivering -- and now his skin was laid bare to the cold air, fresh new swipes of red over his chest, some kind of arcane symbol.  Straight across under Sam’s collarbone, a curved line below it, bowing downward toward Sam’s navel.  There was another cut just below the symbol -- maybe they’d interrupted Sam’s detox fueled session with Lucifer.  Dean reached out to touch the symbol, but stopped at an inch of hover.  Jesus, Sammy.

“Okay.  That’s it.  You gotta whammy him, doc.”

Amelia watched Dean a moment, thoughtful, frowning, looked down at the symbol on Sam’s chest.  Then she took Sam’s hand between both of hers and murmured to Sam, soft words, “You’re okay, you’re safe, just breathe,” until Sam looked at her.  Until he blinked at her, until he nodded and looked away, ashamed and Dean remembered that from the bad old days, when he’d have a real hard time keeping reality straight.  One of those days when he saw two Deans, or when he saw no Deans even when Dean was shaking him trying to get him to come back,  _ come back to me Sammy _ .  And he’d come back, and he’d look Dean in the face, and whatever he saw there made him look away again, like he was a burden, like he was broken.  And he’d push away and say he was fine and he’d pretend, and his hands would shake--

“The best option is for me to knock you out, Sam.  Like before.  I can’t promise you won’t dream, Sam, that it won’t be difficult or painful for you even asleep, but it would probably stop you from injuring yourself--”

“I didn’t--”

“Not intentionally, that’s not what I’m saying,” Amelia reassured.  “But in order for you to be physically safe while this process moves forward, it might be best to--”

“No.”

“I won’t hurt you.  You don’t have to worry.  I’ll stay with you, just in case something happens.  Dean too, if you want--”

“ _ No _ \-- I mean.”  Sam looked from her to Dean and then into empty space.  “I can do it.”  His voice was barely there.  Where Dean thought he was staring into space, Sam was watching something.  “I’m here, I’m here.  I thought you left--”

“Sam?” Amelia asked, squeezing his hand.  “Sam, I didn’t go anywhere.  I’m right here--”

“I know, I know that now.”  Sam swallowed, blinked hard, looked right at Dean.  “I can do this the old-fashioned way.”  He turned his fevered gaze to Amelia; Dean watched her get drawn toward it like she was under a spell, the intensity of it, of Sam coming back to them from some distant, dark place.  “In fact, you guys should take a break, go get dinner.”  He relaxed back against the pillow, spent, voice shaking.  “Hell, get a hotel room and cut out for a few days.”

“That’s not happening,” Amelia said, just as Dean was saying, “Are you nuts?”  Amelia and Sam both looked at him, and he shrugged.  “Bad choice of words.  But seriously, no, Sam.”

Sam was quiet, didn’t look at either of them.  He was covered in a sheen of sweat, he shivered now and then, his hand flexed and relaxed over and over.

“Sam,” Amelia said.  She shifted so that she was seated on the floor, still tall enough Sam could look at her without craning his head down uncomfortably, but she was making herself at home there at Sam’s side, and maybe out of a little possessiveness, Dean followed suit on Sam’s other side.  Amelia took Sam’s hand in hers and Dean saw him squeeze it a little.  “Can you talk to me a little about why you’re so resistant to the idea?”

Sam frowned at her, didn’t answer.

“Maybe you’re afraid of what will happen while you’re asleep?  Or maybe you don’t trust me?  That’s okay, whatever it is.  I won’t blame you or judge you for it.  Nothing that has happened is your fault, and however you deal with it or react to it is fine.  We just want to help you.”

Sam opened his mouth, maybe to answer.  But he just watched her, looked at Dean briefly and then watched Amelia.  He licked his dry, cracking lips.  “I trust you.  It’s just.  I have to do this.  This is -- it’s my choice.  Please.”

Amelia watched him without answering.  Under her lingering gaze, Sam squirmed.  “I don’t want to lose-- I mean, I don’t want to ... not be here.  I don’t want to wake up and not be... me.  I - I can’t--”  He broke off, looked over at Dean and then into space again, awaiting a verdict.

Amelia gnawed on her lower lip, thoughtful.  Dean watched how she watched Sam, how she was keeping herself walled away for Sam’s benefit.  The angry sarcastic bitchy woman who judged Dean hard for the way he’d handled things was still in there somewhere, but with Sam, she was gentle, kind, determined.  Sad.  Sympathetic.  She looked up at Dean.

“Do you trust me with his care?” she asked.

“I thought you said--”

“When he’s unable to give continuous consent through this process, I need to know you trust me to make decisions you’re not qualified to make.  Do you?”

“Yeah, yes,” Dean said.  

“Okay.”  She looked back at Sam, smiled at him this small wistful thing, brushed his sweaty hair from his forehead.  Dean saw how they could have been happy once.  Sam sick with the flu maybe, Amelia bringing him soup, Amelia feeling his forehead for temperature no matter how gross he was.  “Then I won’t put you under, Sam.  You can change your mind any time through this process, no one will blame you or judge you--”

“ _ What--? _ ” Dean interrupted, but she barrelled over him without looking up:

“This is your choice, Sam.  I want to do some things to make you safer.”

Sam stared at her.  His brows were high and pinched, he looked scared out of his mind but also grateful somehow, a little smile at the corner of his mouth the way he sometimes had when he was surprised to be happy.  He nodded.

“No,” Dean said.  “We agreed--”

“ _ You _ agreed to trust me.  Okay.  Here’s what I want us to do.  We’re going to undo these cuffs, Sam.  You’re going to sit up and drink some water for me.”

* * *

 

Sam was sleeping again by the time Dean pulled Amelia out of the dungeon.

“Okay, what the fuck.”

Amelia gave him a murderous look and pointedly kept her mouth shut until they were out of earshot of the dungeon. But once they were, she dropped into a chair and Dean could see the exhaustion dragging her into the ground like a physical force.

“What the fuck,” he said again, but it’d lost some of the edge as he dropped into a chair across from her. “What are you playing? I thought you were gonna whammy him.”

“We’re in uncharted territory, Dean. Maybe it’s better to put him under, I don’t know. But what I  _ sense _ is that Sam hasn’t made a decision and been allowed to stick to it in far too long. If he wants to try this his way, I’m going to let him, until it’s too dangerous for that.”

“It’s already too dangerous,” Dean grumbled.

Amelia sighed. “Maybe. We have to give him a chance here, and give ourselves a chance to do this right. The baby monitor I set up in his room just now will let us know if he’s in distress--”

Dean thought about the times Sam had kept his trap determinedly shut.

“-- and Sam knows we’re listening. We’ll make up a schedule of shifts, so someone is available to go in with him at all times. This is a fresh start for him and for us, to do it right. We need to give this a chance to succeed before we call the game.”

“Fine,” Dean said, leveraging himself out of the chair. “You make up your little schedule. I’m gonna go make some coffee.”

“Dean,” she said.

He turned to look at her, longsuffering. “What.”

“He’s safe.”

Dean pressed his lips together, turned toward the kitchen. “Yeah.”

* * *

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Apparently you do.”

Sam let a breath go, couldn’t look at her.  “You’re dead.”

“I know.”  The way she said it, simple, understanding, patient.  “Sam, you did everything you could.”

“Did I?”

She just looked at him.

“Maybe I did.  It doesn’t matter.  It wasn’t enough.  And look at me.  You died for nothing.”

“Oh, Sam.”

Sam looked at her then.  The curve of her cheek, dark of the forest in her hair, white of grave lilies on her chest.  He could taste the first time they kissed in his memory, the lingering sense of betrayal but also relief, that maybe Jess wanted him to be happy --

“Sarah.”

She smiled at him, a small one.

“I’m so sorry--”

“Don’t, Sam.”

“But I am.  It’s my fault you’re dead.  Don’t try to tell me it’s not--”

“I’m not.”  She shrugged.  The little smile faded.  “It is your fault.”

Sam blinked, put his hand up to his wet cheek.  “You’re not real.  This is just--”

“You.  I’m you.  Telling you the truth you want to deny.”

“I’m not denying anything.  I know your death is on my hands.  I know it’s my fault.  Everyone I--”

“Oh poor Sam.”  She slid closer to him on the little cot, where he sat with his hands limp in his lap, wet tracing down his face.  “What a martyr you are.  I choked to death miles away from home.  I left behind a tiny child and a husband who loved me.  But of course, let’s talk about you.”

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath, willed her to vanish.  She wasn’t real, she wasn’t real.  She was his own traitorous mind’s attempt to punish him.  She wasn’t real, she was--

“Sam.”

“Please.”  His voice was hoarse.   _ She wasn’t real _ and in the corner, Lucifer was just chuckling quietly to himself.

“Sam,” she said again, her hand on his thigh.  She leaned close.  He could smell the peppermint of her chapstick, the slide of her hair over his shoulder as she pressed against his side.  Her fingertips came up to his mouth, rested on the plump of his bottom lip, dragged it down.  Her other hand laid against the back of his neck and held him fast.  Her fingertip darted into his mouth.  He closed his eyes, sensing, maybe, what had to happen next.

“Shh,” she soothed him.  “Everything will be all right in a moment.”

He nodded; she slipped the hex bag into his mouth in a deft movement and then held her hand over his lips, held his jaw shut between her two small hands even as he choked, even as the blood seeped from under her fingers, welling up into his throat--

* * *

 

Dean shoved into the cell, arms full of groceries.  “Okay Sasquatch.  Doc says--  Shit.  Sam, Sam--  _ Doc! _ ”  Fresh fruit hit the ground and rolled; Dean’s knees hit the floor beside Sam’s cot where he sat bolt upright, choking.

“Sam, snap out of it! Jesus!”  Dean shook him by the shoulders.  Sam didn’t resist, didn’t look at him, didn’t  _ breathe _ \--

And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went rigid, head thrown back, and he was seizing.

Well, okay.  Dean had dealt with  _ this _ before, at least.  He pressed Sam backward down onto the cot, pressed him down at the shoulders, careful of the injured one, but firm anyway.  Behind him, he heard the doc burst into the room.  “Come on and get his other side,” he called, straining against Sam’s thrashing limbs.

“What the hell are you doing!”  Rather than help in an emergency, the doc grabbed onto  _ his _ shoulder and yanked him back.

Dean shrugged off her grip.  “What do you mean what the hell am  _ I _ doing?  What the hell are  _ you _ doing?”

“You can’t restrain someone having a grand mal seizure, Dean!”  She threw him the nastiest look he thought she could muster, saying something since she’d been giving him the evil eye every time she saw him for weeks now.  He watched her take in the situation with a hunter’s eye -- details, all of them, and fast.  “Okay, let’s get him onto his side if we can--  _ gently _ , now.  Towards me, come on.”  She knelt on the other side of Sam and helped Dean maneuver him, then picked up the little camping pillow from the concrete floor and slipped it under his head.  Checked her watch.  “How long?”

“What?”

“How  _ long _ has he been seizing?”

“It just started--”

And Sam went still.  Breathing hard, but breathing.

Dean relaxed for a moment, then he turned on the doc.  “Listen.  I know how to handle my brother, okay?”

“So you know not to move him, you know  _ not _ to try to hold him down, you know that you have to time it, you know--”

“I know!  I know.  Mostly.  You know what, you can go, he’s fine now.”

“... Dean...”

Dean and the doc stared at Sam as he drowsily regained consciousness.  He lay curled in on himself, shivered a little.

“Is this expected?” Amelia murmured.

“Uh, yeah.  Ish.  I don’t know.  But he’s been having little seizures lately anyway -- uh.  He did the first time this hell stuff was affecting him, so yeah, it’s not new.”

“He’s been having seizures?  Regularly?”

“No, just uh, okay.  Can we talk about this later?”

Sam groaned.

* * *

 

Sam groaned.

Everything was muddy, muddy and drawn tight inside him, weighted him down.  He should have been dead, and maybe he was.  The last thing he remembered was dying, Sarah pressing her own death into his mouth, the tang of his own tainted blood surging up into his throat--

But it wasn’t real.  Right.  It wasn’t real.  He was here and alive and the lights were too harsh and there was a stabbing somewhere in him, a burning in his blood, a  _ need _ unfulfilled, a sick inside him.  He dragged his hands to his face, ground the heels of his palms into his eyes as the coiling thing inside him begged, demanded release.   _ No, no I won’t--   _ Punished him for not providing.  

Punished him for giving into it in the first place, punished him for existing in a world he didn’t belong to, for coming back when he should have died, for failing, that twisting thing spiraling up from inside him--

The agony swelled, so familiar but never easier, he reached out for nothing, grasped the pillow under his head and twisted the fabric, squeezed his eyes shut, tried to ride it out but he was failing that too.  Lucifer, he could handle.  A battle of wills against himself, he had no hope of winning.

No hope at all--

A hand slipped under his, pried it gently from where it was tangled in the rough fabric of his pillow.  

_ Amelia _ .  Despite himself, he felt grounded by her hand in his.  The small bones of her fingers, the skin of her knuckles pressed against his forehead as he grasped onto her like a beacon.  In the back of his skull, a sounding chorus:  _ she will see, she will know, how wrong you are _ .  He couldn’t stop that voice, couldn’t stop the shaking, couldn’t stop the pain, couldn’t stop holding on to her.

“You’re okay,” she soothed.  She must have been talking all along, the soft murmur he couldn’t make out until now.  Which meant the lower murmur, the basso rumble behind him--

“That’s my boy.”  Dean’s hand came up to rest between Sam’s shoulderblades, heavy and steadying.  He could breathe again.  The thrum of panic bled away.  His pillow felt deeper, his body felt lighter.  Despite the spin up of adrenaline, the reptile backbrain that insisted these hands had cut him, these hands couldn’t be depended on, he sagged into drowsiness.  Safer, anyway, to give in to comfort when Dean was being kind.  Lucifer taught him that.

“That’s my Sammy.”

_ The one who calls you Sammy. _

_ That’s your brother.  If he was real.  If they were real.  Remember forever, forever’s always longer, my brother calls me Sammy-- _

“My brother calls me that,” he breathed.

The hand on his back stilled.  “That’s me, Sammy.  I’m your brother.”

“I know.  I know.  Dean.  I know, it’s you, I know...”

* * *

 

“Dean, what’s wrong with you?”

Dean sat at the table in the war room, nursing a whiskey.  “Me?  Oh, I’m just fine.”

“Yeah, sure.  I buy that.”  Amelia swung around the table and took a seat with her own whiskey.  He could feel her staring.

“Just say it, doc.”

“Say what.”

“Whatever it is you’re gonna say.”

She was quiet another long moment.  “You know, I’ve been here with you and Sam for almost four days, and you haven’t spent more than twenty minutes total with him this whole time.”

“That can’t be right--”

“I know you don’t want to talk with me--”

“Give the lady a prize--”

“But think of it like you’re helping Sam, by telling me how I can best help both of you.”

Dean set his glass down, a little more thump than he’d meant, but he stared her down anyway.  “Listen, if I knew how to help Sam, you wouldn’t be here, okay?”

She didn’t say anything, just kept  _ watching _ him like a little shit, hiding behind her glass of whiskey.

“Look, lady.  This shit isn’t easy, okay?  Sue me if I’m a little jumpy because my brother’s having hallucinations that cut the shit out of him.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s not enough?”  The room was claustrophobic, Dean was too hot, suddenly angry at the intrusion of this woman into their lives.

But he’d gotten to his feet without realizing it, he’d thrown out an arm without realizing it, and the roar of his anger echoed in the room.

And Amelia was shifted back in her seat, eyes wide, watching him like he might--

His phone rang out from his pocket.  Thank god.  Or whoever.

“ _ What _ .”  He spun away from her and started out of the room.  Despite not wanting to see her dumb face, he almost turned right back around when he heard her beat feet the other direction, toward the kitchen.  Like she was  _ afraid _ of him?  Whatever.

“ _ Dean, it’s Kevin-- _ ”

“Yeah, I got that.  Funny thing, caller ID.  Look I’m a little busy here, so what’s up?  Anyone dyin’?”

“ _ No, I just-- _ ”

“Then I got better things--”

“ _ Dean, I think I found something in the Demon tablet _ .”

“Something to put the Trials on hold?  Cuz we could really use that about now.”

“ _ No, not yet.  I’m still looking. _ ”

“Okay, then what?”

“ _ Okay, you know how there’s an Angel tablet and a Demon tablet, right? _ ”

“I follow.  Are you saying there’s like, a Purgatory tablet?”  He totally did not almost choke on the word, he totally kept it cool and didn’t even start to smell smoke or taste blood in his mouth.  

“ _ No, no.  There’s an  _ Earth _ tablet.  It’s referenced in the Demon tablet a couple of times.  You know it totally makes sense.  If there’s an Angel tablet and a Demon tablet, and humanity is God’s favorite creation, wouldn’t he make an Earth tablet so we could protect ourselves?  Maybe it’s got the answers for Sam’s thing  _ and _ the angels thing and maybe the demons thing so Sam doesn’t have to... you know. _ ”

“No, I don’t know.  Die?  Sam isn’t dying for this thing, I thought we already decided that.”

“ _ Yeah, no of course.  But like, maybe this is the  _ way _ he doesn’t have to die for it. _ ”

Dean rolled his eyes.  Right, of course.  Everything Kevin was saying made sense.  He just couldn’t stop being  _ angry _ about it all.  “Okay so you found out there’s a third tablet.  Great news.  Is that all you wanted?”

“ _ Just that we think we might know what it is.  Charlie’s tracking down where it was last seen right now. _ ”

“Oh.  Well... great.  Call me when you know more and we’ll go get it.”

“ _ Will do.  Or, you know, we can come home and research-- _ ”

“No.”

“ _ Come on, Dean.  How is he?  You owe us that much.  You’re not the only one who cares about him! _ ”

“I get it, okay.  Everybody loves Sammy.  But you can’t be here right now--”

“ _ Says you-- _ ”

“Says  _ Sam _ .”  There was quiet on the other end of the line.  “I’m sorry, but it’s true.  He wants some time alone right now.  It’s nothing personal, okay?  Just respect it and let him heal.”

Kevin breathed down the line, a judgey dissatisfied kind of breathing.  Asshole breathing.  But finally he said, “ _ Fine.  At least tell us how he’s doing. _ ”

“Sam’s... he’s gonna be fine.  His shrink is here.  He’s dealing about as well as you’d expect a Winchester to deal with being kidnapped.”

“ _ So, angry and unwilling to let anyone help him because he doesn’t want to ever feel that helpless again? _ ”

“Basically.  Be good, Kevin.”

“ _ Whatever. _ ”

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long it had been.  He wasn’t sure how long it would take to dry out this time, considering how much he’d been made to drink over such a short time.  A vial a day for two weeks, more than he’d ever done and had to come back from before.  Sure, killing Lilith, but he hadn’t come down from that, just been magically healed.  And yeah, taking on Lucifer, but again.  

So who knew if he would survive, who knew if it’d take a week or two or several, who knew how long it had already been--

Well, probably Dean.  Dean knew.

But Dean didn’t come to see him anymore, not after the last time he and Amelia had come in to find him choking to death on a remembered hex bag, a ghost’s retribution, an imagined thing. He remembered Dean’s heavy warm hand between his shoulders, or he thought he did. Or maybe Dean hadn’t been there at all, and then who knew how long it had been since Dean had forced himself to come down to the dungeons.  Amelia came sometimes and they talked, and it felt nice, like maybe he could come out the other end of this, and she held his hand when all he could do was shake from nausea and pain and  _ need _ .

But even she had to sleep, even she had to eat, had to report back to Dean how he was doing.  And when he was alone, he was never alone.  He always had visitors. Sarah and cupcake girl once, werewolf boy, Bobby a couple of times. 

And sometimes, this Dean, crouched in front of him where he huddled in a corner of the room.  So much like that first day, Dean’s hand around Sam’s throat, his fingers digging in, darkness in Dean’s eyes like he wasn’t even home, was miles away, in Purgatory or Hell or maybe he just really really hated Sam.

He crouched now in front of Sam, looking upset.

“You aren’t real,” Sam said, voice gravel.

Dean frowned.  “How do you know that?”

Sam looked over at Lucifer, who was frowning, pouting because Sam had seen through his act, his plot.   _ He is  _ so  _ real! _  Right.  Sam squeezed his eyes shut, tried to calm his shaking hand, the pounding in his skull.  They’d given him some pain relievers earlier, enough to take the edge off, but nothing too powerful because of interactions -- he was lucid enough to understand it, and he agreed, but it was still only barely making a dent.

“I just know,” he answered.

Dean stood then, an extension of Lucifer’s annoyance, and Sam relaxed into the shadow of the corner.  When he knew Dean was fake, it was so much easier.  Dean glanced at the door to Sam’s cell and back.

“Okay.  You got me.  So what do you wanna do about it?”

“What do  _ I _ wanna do?”

Dean paced, smiled bright.  “Yeah.  Wanna have a tea party?  Want me to carve into your chest a little bit?”

Sam went cold.  “No.  No.”

“Why don’t we just talk then.”

“Okay.”  Sam looked over at Lucifer.  Lucifer tilted his head.  Sam knew him, knew his habits, had so many years getting to know him.  He wasn’t completely displeased by this turn of events, he was watching to see what happened, he was making a plan out of his failed deception, he was--

He wasn’t real.  He wasn’t  _ real _ .  Just like Dean.  Sam squeezed his eyes shut, dropped his head back against the wall.  This Dean couldn’t hurt him.  

“What do you wanna talk about?” Sam said.

“Let’s talk about you.”

“How’d I guess.”

Dean sat on the cot, elbows on his knees, looked troubled.  Still trying to be a convincing Dean, which was admirable, but pointless.  

Just your brain, just your brain mixing crap up again, neurons firing.  Detox and Lucifer, and Lucifer isn’t even a real figure, actively trying to trick you, he’s just your own brain.  Remember that.  Remember that.

“Hey, snap out of it.  I’m trying to hold a conversation here,” Dean said.

Sam gasped back into reality.  Well, “reality.”

“What do you want to know?”  Sam dragged his head forward, rested his chin on his knees.  “I mean, you’re a shitty projection of Dean, if you don’t think you know everything already.  But go ahead.”

Fake-Dean had the audacity to look hurt.  “Let’s start with why you won’t let yourself get knocked out.”

Sam narrowed his eyes.  That sounded a lot like something real-Dean would have asked.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Look, you gotta know it isn’t logical.  Consider me your inner logic guy, wondering what the hell is so important to you that you gotta put yourself --  _ us _ \-- through this.”

Sam frowned, looked over at Lucifer.  Lucifer was smiling just a little.  Dean looked over at Lucifer too, then back at Sam.  “Ignore him, he’s not even real.”

“And you are?”

“I’m a real little piece of your head that wants to know what’s so bad about sitting this one out.”

Sam watched him.  Then he swallowed.  Sighed.  “You already know.”

Fake-Dean shook his head, eyes to the ceiling like  _ why me, God _ , and said, “Yeah, but we’re  _ processing _ it.  Cuz it’s fucked up.  And you know it.  So spill.”

He didn’t want to say it aloud.  If he said it aloud, he will have always said it aloud, he might do it again in front of real people.

“I’m not going away.”

“I deserve this!” Sam said then, snapped his mouth shut and bit down on the rest, feeling hot and shaky and now the words were out there.

Fake-Dean stared at him.  “You really believe that.”

“It’s true.  They wanted-- If I hadn’t done this to myself before, they’d have never known who I was.”  Sam blinked hard -- the world was tilting, just a bit. A head rush, dizzy, he felt sick, put a hand down to the concrete floor to steady himself.  “And I need to remember how wrong this is because sometimes--”

When he didn’t go on, Dean said, “Sometimes what, Sam?”

“Sometimes I think--”  He looked up at Dean.  “I don’t trust myself.  I’m not strong enough.”

“Bullshit--”

“It’s true.  This could kill me.  And maybe it should.  Maybe I want it to.  I don’t know.  If I go out this way, it won’t be tragic, it’ll be  _ deserved _ , and Dean won’t, he won’t be--”  The words caught up with him, he was light-headed, too much oxygen, too much everything, he was breathing too fast and not deeply enough and his logic Dean-figment was right, he was completely fucked up.

Whatever sympathy, whatever understanding, gentleness, kindness had been in Dean’s face vanished.  He was angry.  He stood from the cot, live wire fury, leaned toward Sam but didn’t step nearer, just pointed his finger accusingly.  “What the  _ fuck _ Sam? You promised me you were  _ trying _ !”

“What?”

Across the room, Lucifer giggled.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, running his hand through his hair.  He washed it down over his face and then looked at Sam again, like Sam had betrayed him.  And then he turned and pushed out of the doors, slammed them behind him, locked the door.

No.

No.

“The look on your  _ face! _ ”  Lucifer laughed.  “You’re not even real,” he mimicked.  “You’re just a figment of my imagination.  Ah, man.  Priceless.”

No.  No.

“Dean?” Sam called after him.  “Dean!”  Too late.  Too late.

 


End file.
